


The Easter Bunny

by HisMightyShield



Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Case Fic, Corruption, Gentleman Thief, M/M, Masturbation, Modernisation, Murder, Resolved Sexual Tension, Retelling, The Adventure of the Six Napoleons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:25:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisMightyShield/pseuds/HisMightyShield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern re-telling of "The Adventure of the Six Napoleons" done for the ModernDoyle fest. Featuring the resolution of some long felt Sherlock/Lestrade UST, and guest starring the lovely, A.J. Raffles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Easter Bunny

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Adventure of the Six Napoleons](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/19407) by Arthur Conan Doyle. 



> This story is dedicated to the Raffles in my life. Anne, you are the Jeeves to my Wooster. Thank you for always being there to lend a hand, be a host, teach me about Gentleman's fashion, share your boundless knowledge of all things silent-film related and -- most importantly -- share your gin. 
> 
> I can't thank you enough for everything you've done for me and my life has been infinitely better since I've been able to consider you a friend. 
> 
> I hope you like this story.

Routine was a bit like marriage, and if the white line on Lestrade’s ring finger said he had no time for one, the fact he was only back to his skimpy, two-room flat at half-past eleven at night said he had no use for the other. It had been a rather uneventful day at the office, and while he had a hard time looking at a lack of homicide as a bad thing, putting in long hours to appease the paper-pushers was hardly his idea of a day well spent. 

He dropped his keys on the folding card table that served him more as a catch-all than a place for his meals (those he usually took on the sofa while watching what passed for television on BBC four). His suit jacket followed before he made it to the small, closet-sized bathroom to finish undressing and throw himself into the shower. 

There was nothing like a good dose of hot water and steam to ripple out the tension that a day at the office knotted into what felt like every muscle in his back. He would never see the appeal of retiring _to_ a desk job as he found it far more more taxing than any other avenue his job chased him down. Even dealing with Holmes was better than the dotting “i”s and crossing the “t”s of the reports the detectives he was in charge of dumped onto his desk for review. 

He pressed a hand against the back of his neck, shutting his eyes as he spent a minute rubbing his thumb into the stiffness and frowning for just a moment when he realised that _that_ was one of the few things he missed about being married. Well, not married, per se, because as things went sour he hadn’t come home looking forward to a massage -- and _let alone_ sex. That was where he’d picked up his habit of stretching out the hours he spent in the office to ungodly extremes. As first, he’d worked hard to get ahead, impress his superiors and prove himself among his peers, but as his wife had grown more and more aggravated at the time he spent away from home, he didn’t make an effort to _appease_ her so much as he pushed harder to stay away. It wasn’t the most mature or considerate response, but not going home just felt better than spending a long night arguing or feeling unwanted after a day dealing with murders or, worse still, mountains of photocopies. 

There had been one strange highlight to his day, and he thought about it now as he shook water from his hair and reached for a bottle of shampoo. Around two in the afternoon, he’d gotten a call from another Detective, Hornung, who worked in burglary-related crimes. He didn’t know Hornung all that well, but since the scandal surrounding Sherlock’s suicide and his apparent return from the dead, everyone and their neighbour knew that the only real access to Holmes was through Lestrade’s gateway. So, if they had abnormal or unsolved cases, they’d casually drop in on Lestrade for his “opinion”. Of course, Greg knew what they were doing and for the first little while, he’d been a bit bitter about it. After all, Holmes’ suicide had not been easy on him, personally or professionally. A month unpaid vacation for consulting a _criminal_ , the ridicule and pitying glances from detectives that -- he knew for a fact -- used to revere and praise both his work and Sherlock’s had just about done him in. He’d filed for divorce just to feel like he had some kind of control over something and to stop kidding himself that the game of separation and reconciliation he was playing with his wife was anything more than just two middle-aged people who didn’t love each other anymore but were too afraid to really go it alone. 

But then Holmes had reappeared, as Greg had always hoped against reason he would. Back into his life in a flurry, wearing that same greatcoat and smelling of earnestness and a hint of Benson & Hedges. He’d missed him, but he’d had no idea just how passionately until he was standing beside him once again and his knees had nearly buckled when Sherlock had touched his arm. Sherlock’s fall had changed them both, but it was far easier for Lestrade to notice how it had altered Holmes than it had himself. No longer was Sherlock as quick to offer aid to any Yarder who stuck their nose past his threshold. He was more cautious, perhaps even jaded by the experience. That was how Lestrade had finally, truly, become the consulting detective’s keeper and it was not a charge he took lightly. 

When the first few had come to him, tails between their legs, gently suggesting his and Sherlock’s help, he’d made his opinion known. He’d made it bloody clear that he knew not a man on the force had stood up for him or Sherlock during the inquest and none of them deserved his help now. But Greg’s bark had always been worse than his bite and as time passed Sherlock’s cravings for work got the best of both of them. If the case was good, it barely mattered where it was coming from. 

And that was what brought Hornung to him around two in the afternoon, casually and transparently asking if he’d like to catch something to eat. Lestrade accepted, more because any excuse to get out from behind his desk was a good one than because he’d any desire to listen to someone’s pleas for help, and they’d gone to a nearby pub. Lestrade ordered himself a beer and defiantly _dared_ Hornung to scrutinise him with a warning glance. 

The detective’s problem, it turned out, was an interesting one. In the last month and a half, Hirsch London, Standard Chartered and Museum of London had all reported break-ins. What kept it out of the press was the simple fact that nothing had been stolen. Instead, something had been _left behind_. At Hirsch’s a jewelled rabbit was perched among some of the most expensive engagement rings. At Chartered, an origami bunny made of a 1000£ note and at the Museum, a plush white rabbit had been delicately planted among the models of the current Brave New Worlds exhibit. Hornung displayed photos of all three rabbits for Lestrade, his frustration mounting more and more as he described the ways in which the vandal evaded security measures and guards. 

“Maybe the Easter Bunny got bored,” Greg had said between sips of his Boddingtons. Frankly, as strange as all of it sounded, he didn’t see why Hornung was nearly as worked up as he was. He had some _vague_ understanding of internet pranks and thought this might be one, elaborate, sure, and definitely worth some attention, but not _his_ and certainly not Sherlock’s. Still, he promised Hornung he’d look into it just to make sure he wouldn’t be the one paying for his lunch and made his way back to the bureaucratic dungeon that was his office. 

Now, standing in the floral-scented rushes of lather, letting the steady stream of water hit him square in the chest, he _was_ thinking about shooting Holmes an email about Hornung’s problem just for the sake of dangling a carrot (ha!) in front of the consulting detective’s nose. It had been a solid week or so since he’d heard from Holmes and that fact alone was enough to make him anxious in the ways it used to when he first met Sherlock. When Holmes was still spending his disposable income on bad habits his falling off the grid might have meant something bad. He supposed the anxiety made sense, given the fact that Sherlock’s last disappearance had felt almost like the entire world had been shaken up, but there was something else pulling at his desire to see Sherlock. It wasn’t quite a feeling he could explain and certainly not one he was going to attempt to analyse, but it hovered in the back of his mind the way evidence did when he didn’t quite know what it meant. 

He also didn’t try too hard to work out what it meant when he shut his eyes and pictured Sherlock. When he thought about the way his strong, white neck disappeared into the V-collar of his too-tight shirt he widened his stance and put an arm against the wall’s white tile for support before reaching down to take himself in hand and start pulling out the hard _ache_ that had started up just about the time he’d starting thinking about what Sherlock smelled like. 

Maybe he hated most routines, but this was certainly becoming one. It didn’t matter if he’d seen Sherlock or not, it didn’t matter if he was turned on by the thought of him or something else, by the time he finished, there was nothing in his mind but those piercing blue eyes, what his curls might feel like when they were damp and matted with sweat. What those lips, so fucking defined and _good_ at being cruel would feel like, stretched and gliding over every _inch_ he had to offer. 

Lestrade finished, panting and spent, and let the shower clean him off for a minute before he shut it down and stepped out to wrap a towel around his waist. He felt good, very good, and was more than ready to search the leftovers in his fridge for what wasn’t spoiled, heat a plate and head to bed hoping for a more-interesting tomorrow. If Scotland Yard was still bone-dry, he’d call Holmes up, maybe he’d even swing by, and let him in on the Bunny-case. 

The second he switched off the bathroom light and stepped out, he froze. He was certain he hadn’t put the living room light on, and even more certain that he hadn’t ordered the _Indian_ food he was now smelling. He knew, of course, what it all meant, but given how he’d just spent his last ten minutes, it made the hair on the back of his neck stick up in an uncomfortable way. He set his hand down on the fold in his towel, making sure it was securely in place and sighed as he stepped out into the three-foot space he could hardly call a hallway.

“I don’t remember giving you a key,” he said, turning to look at the back of his sofa. Holmes had taken his coat off and draped it over one side. He was seated, bent over and typing away at what took Greg a moment to realise was _his_ laptop. “Hey!” 

“My IP address was blocked when I tried to log in from Baker street.” Sherlock said, a touch of irritation in his voice. “For a moment I thought you’d only changed your password, but no -- and don’t worry, I don’t blame you. It’s obviously not something you’d think about.”  
  
He hit a few more keys violently and then straightened up, throwing an arm over the back of the sofa and pivoting to look over his shoulder at Lestrade. He paused, holding his tongue between his teeth and arching an eyebrow in an appraising fashion that made Lestrade suddenly feel severely self-conscious. “I bought you dinner.”

“I can see,” Lestrade said, trying to keep a strained, annoyed tone to his voice but finding it difficult given the circumstances. He’d never in his life been able to reprimand Sherlock in any effective way and he sincerely doubted he’d be able to manage it now, wearing nothing but a goddamn towel. 

But if Holmes was in his living room at nearly midnight, there would have to be a reason for it. Though, having not handed him a case himself, he was a little wary. Had he finally relented, finally agreed to take on something from the Yard without his recommendation? Lestrade couldn’t say that was a bad development, he knew that getting cases solved was in the best interest of everyone and if they needed Sherlock to do it than they ought to have him, but he couldn’t help but feel a bit -- a bit what? Put out? Incensed? Jealous? He cleared his throat. “Well what brings you, anyway?” 

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Sherlock said, relinquishing his hold on the couch and turning back around to face Greg’s computer. He picked it up and moved, sliding from the middle cushion to the right-hand side, giving its owner an unspoken invitation to join him. 

Greg turned his eyes towards the ceiling as he considered, for just a moment, if he was going to do this. If he was actually going to plant himself down, nearly naked, next to the man whose mouth he’d just imagined fucking. At least, he’d told himself, he _had_ just taken a shower. With that in mind, he shifted the knot in his towel a bit further towards his hip and stepped around to take a seat next to Sherlock. He didn’t want to look at him, couldn’t, in fact, and so he kept his eyes on the laptop’s screen. Immediately, he recognised a very familiar photograph. One of the same that he’d seen on Hornung’s phone earlier that day: the origami rabbit found in the bank vault. “How did you--”

“That’s not the question you want to ask,” Sherlock said, reaching over to dish out some rice and curry to a paper plate before passing it over to the Inspector. “How I did isn’t all that interesting or important, is it? What _is_ is ‘Why are you’, don’t you agree Lestrade?”

If he wasn’t busy getting a fork full of his dinner, he might have taken the time necessary to shoot Sherlock an annoyed glance. But as it was, the smell of dinner reminded him of how long it had been since he’d last eaten, and he was a man who valued the order of his priorities, even if they were often skewed. “Go on.” 

“These rabbits are not an isolated case, there have been two others that I know of -- perhaps more.” He touched the side of the computer to turn it slightly in Lestrade’s direction and opened a new tab to reveal photos he’d brought up from his e-mail address. “Ce lapin a été trouvé dans le musée du Louvre, perched right beneath the Mona Lisa. I like its coy little smile, a nice touch. This other one, in _Groeningemuseum_ , Bruges.”

“The Easter Bunny gets around.”

“Please don’t tell me that’s what you’re calling him,” but Sherlock’s slight smirk gave away the fact he did find the apparent nickname at least mildly amusing. “I’m sure if I did more research, I’d find more. While whoever it is doing this seems London-focused at the moment, he’s an international mystery.”

“Then you think it’s one person?” 

Sherlock frowned, that mouth that Lestrade was having a very hard time not paying attention to twisting into a slightly uncertain frown. “Don’t you?”

“No, not really.” Greg said, shaking his head. “The detective following this case, Hornung, he came to me today to ask me what I thought. I was meaning to text you about it tomorrow, but patience isn’t one of your virtues, is it? Anyway, I thought the entire thing a bit ridiculous, maybe just an internet prank, you know? Series of inside jobs, publicity stunt, something like that?”

“That’s -- “ Holmes nodded, tapping his fingers against the side of the monitor. “Really, that’s not a bad theory actually, but I’ve already considered it. The problem with it, though, is that if it was some kind of publicity stunt--”

“It would be getting press.” Lestrade finished the thought for him. Now that he knew it wasn’t isolated to a few rabbits over the last month or so, that made sense. “But it isn’t, it’s all been hushed up. If this was some sort of statement --”

“Or performance art.”

“--then it would have been leaked somehow. Especially if this was an inside job. What with those Instraphotos and the Twitter and that.”

“My God, Lestrade, I had no idea you had your finger on the very pulse of social media.” Sherlock looked up from the computer screen as he spoke, a note of something tender in the glance he tossed casually in the Inspector’s direction. “But you’re actually exactly right. So that means that the person responsible isn’t interested in media attention, he’s interested in our attention. Well, mine specifically. Those two photos I sent you were sent to me directly from the source, not the local police. Someone is sending me presents, and I imagine he hasn’t bothered with the London locations because he expected someone else would do the work for him.” 

Lestrade sat back, his bare shoulders pressing into the cushions. His expression darkened. They’d been down this particular road before, and he had no desire to revisit those landmarks. If this was some other lunatic who’d taken an interest in Sherlock -- well, he didn’t know what he’d do, but if it got at all serious, he was pretty damn certain it wouldn’t exactly be _protocol_.

The change in Lestrade seemed to register with Sherlock almost instantly, and his smile faded. “Moriarty is _quite_ dead, Inspector, of that I can assure you.” 

“I know he is.” The casualness with which Holmes mentioned Moriarty’s name didn’t sit right in his stomach and the food on his lap momentarily lost its appeal. He never liked thinking about him, and he still didn’t like the fact that he was buried in a grave still marked with Sherlock’s headstone. They really ought to get that removed, have him exhumed and tossed in a gutter with the rats where he belonged, or worse. “But that doesn’t come near to making it better, does it? We don’t need another one of him.”

“Origami rabbits is hardly the same as parkas laced with semtex, Lestrade, I doubt we’ve anything to really worry about. This -- thief -- we’ll call him, he doesn’t seem the same at all. His primary interest -- well, look what he does! He beats security systems, not because he wants or needs to steal anything, but _because he can_. All he’s doing is showing off his capabilities.”

“I swear God, Sherlock, if a fucking rabbit shows up in the Tower of London --” 

“Oh, _it won’t_. That’s already been done. There isn’t any prize in following someone else’s act.” He slapped his hand down on Greg’s bare leg, making the Inspector almost instantly forget what it was they were talking about at all and focus entirely on the way Sherlock’s fingers curled around his thigh. He didn’t have time to think about it long before Holmes retracted his hand and got to his feet. 

“Where are you going?”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock said, putting his hand on the sofa beside Greg’s shoulder and leaning over him. Lestrade held his breath, suddenly concerned that his towel would not at all conceal what was happening beneath it if this kept up. The consulting detective grabbed his coat from where it hung on the furniture behind Greg and pulled it back to put it on.

Lestrade exhaled. “You’re smoking again.”

“I’m quitting again,” Sherlock corrected, sliding into his coat and reaching into his pocket to pluck out his scarf. “And you should too. _Now_ , I’m going home. Don’t tell Hornung what I’ve said about the _Easter Bunny_ just yet, will you? I want to look into it a bit more on my own before Scotland Yard muddies the water. Let me know if you hear anything more from him immediately, however. This could prove interesting. Enjoy your dinner.”

Sherlock crossed the apartment in a few long strides -- it really didn’t take much -- and reached the door. “And the _Easter Bunny_ is a stupid name. He leaves chocolate eggs about, not miniature rabbits, you’ll have to think of something better before this shows up in the bloody Daily Mail.” He paused and opened the door that led out into the dimly lit hallway. “Oh, and Lestrade? Nice towel.”

***  
Baker street had not been quite the same since John left. Sherlock was nothing but utterly happy with the union between John and the exceptionally lovely Mary Morstan, but the mornings dragged on a little with only Mrs. Hudson and his violin for company. Watson, of course, still played a very active role in his life, still trusted with the upkeep of his blog and always at-the-ready for any case that came along. He visited frequently, but he hadn’t been around for about a week now and Sherlock didn’t expect him for another two, at least. Though Watson and Mary’s wedding had been only a month after Holmes had returned to the land of the alive-and-kicking, the newlyweds had postponed their honeymoon until Sherlock had finished the business he’d needed to take care of, restoring his name and settling back into the swing of active detectivehood before they’d parted for a lengthy stay in John’s adored New Zealand. He missed them -- indeed, them both, as Mary had proven herself to be not only a wonderful companion for John, but a smart, witty woman whose company Sherlock found himself quite fascinated with. There were few women, he was sure, whom he liked more and he never minded having her around to bounce ideas off of. He did not feel at all as though he’d lost a friend, simply that he gained another; it was very gratifying. 

He drew his bow across his violin’s strings, focused on the street below his window and thinking about -- well, he ought to have been thinking about the strange case of the appearing rabbits. He hadn’t been entirely honest with Lestrade the night before. There _was_ a certain playfulness to all of this that did allude to Jim a great deal, but that didn’t excite him. If anything, it was a cold, uncomfortable reminder that Moriarty was gone and no matter who this new fellow was, no matter what strange mystery he brought to the table, he wasn’t and could never _be_ anything like Moriarty. He understood what Jim wanted, there on the rooftop. A double suicide, both of them at the very top of their game. It didn’t matter that Sherlock would die in public disgrace, not really, not as long as they both knew the truth. It would never get any better for either of them, they would never meet another person or be touched or stimulated in quite the same way again so what _was_ the point in going on? For Jim, there hadn’t been one and Moriarty’s only real mistake, the small detail that he overlooked, was that _Sherlock_ still had a reason to live. Jim’s masterwork was finished, executed beautifully and Sherlock held nothing but utter respect for him, but Holmes still had a few loose ends he needed to tie up before he took that kind of plunge -- at least, for real, anyway. 

But he wasn’t really thinking about any of that now. Instead, he was wasting his utterly brilliant mind reliving every exquisite fucking detail of last night. The way Lestrade looked, stepping out of the shower, flushed from the heat. It had taken every ounce of the self-restraint he didn’t usually possess not to waltz into the bathroom when he’d first arrived in the Inspector’s flat and noticed him in the shower. It had taken even more not to sink his knees into the sofa on either side of him when he’d reached for his coat, to feel that wet towel between his thighs, the warmth beneath it, to lick and pull on Greg’s perfectly shaped ears and utterly bury himself in his fresh, warm skin. He wanted him, he’d _always_ wanted him and now that the idiot had gone and gotten himself divorced it only made it worse. He’d always been able to extinguish his desires as utterly impossible. Greg was a lot of things, he knew, but the one thing he was above all else was _loyal_. He loved, adored and cherished him for it, but as long as he was married it meant he was entirely off-limits. Now, _now_ Sherlock could pepper his fantasies with all manner of false hope. It was distracting, it was dangerous, but damn it if he could help himself. 

That was why he so insisted upon Lestrade being involved in all his investigations that concerned the Yard. He didn’t care that the other detectives had been so quick to throw them both beneath a train when things went sour. It had never been about any of them, just the work. He wanted Lestrade around because he wanted to share his space. His fixation bordered on obsession and he knew it was stupid, he insulted himself because he knew it was stupid, but there was nothing he could do about it. He pushed through his feelings on the tension of his violin strings. It was the only way he knew to bring himself relief. Lestrade would never hear the songs he composed, he’d never really know how much he meant to him. That the thought of a kiss from him, of any kind of affection really, had been what had really saved him from the pavement. 

He was half-way through a new song when his phone flared up with a text message. He considered ignoring it in favour of staying in the grip of his music, but with John away there was a chance that the message might be somehow important. With a shiver, he put down his violin and picked up his phone from where it lay, neglected on the table. 

**TXT MSG FROM DI LESTRADE:** 131 Pitt Street, Kensington.

And there it was. A message from both the only and the last person he wanted one from. He didn’t know how in the name of God he was going to behave himself around pleasant company with the image of a wet, primed and ready Lestrade still at the very forefront of his mind. He shut his eyes and tried to map out Kensington, wondering if 131 Pitt Street might, in fact, just be some seedy, pay-by-the hour motel and that this was the text message he’d been waiting for his entire life, but he knew that wasn’t true. Pitt Street was nothing but a quiet little backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of London life, and 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested, respectable, and most unromantic dwellings. If he left now, he would be there in just under fifteen minutes, but his feet didn’t seem to want to uproot themselves from their position on his floor. 

**TXT MSG FROM DI LESTRADE:** Come immediately. 

Fine, if he bloody insisted. Hadn’t it been only last night that Lestrade remarked that _he_ was the one who lacked patience? 

***  
In under twenty, Holmes was exactly where Lestrade wanted him to be, stepping out of a black cab and striding up to a length of crime scene tape and Sally Donovan. His day, he could tell, was only going to get better. 

“Holmes.” Sally lifted the tap for him without quite meeting his eye. She’d been quiet since his return, not as quick to insult him or sneer at his presence. He understood why, but he didn’t like it. There were quite a few of these little changes that he didn’t much care for. He wished things could be the way they were, that they could still snipe at each other, if was far easier for him than having to navigate the fact that she felt guilty for what she’d done. Of course he didn’t blame her for what had happened. She’d had a part to play in Moriarty’s game, no more and no less. He’d honestly wanted her to respond exactly as she had. He knew it wasn’t the best for Lestrade’s career, but that was _his_ burden to carry and not hers. He wished he could tell her, let her know that there were honestly no hard feelings, maybe even apologise for how he’d treated her in some of his less-than-shining moments but he didn’t know what words to use or where to begin. He’d missed her too, if there had been a rifle aimed at her chest instead of anyone else’s, nothing would have changed for him. He considered her, brilliant and bold as she was, ready to follow up on her instincts and her gut as she was, just as much a part of his life as anyone else. While he had trouble admitting his option of her changed remarkably after the events surrounding Moriarty’s death (because he had a difficult time owning up to his own faults) he would say that he certainly developed a better appreciation for what she was capable of and he admired it. 

“Ah, good morning Donovan.” He said, ducking beneath the tape. But he paused before moving on to find Greg, half because he wasn’t quite ready to, and half because he was still searching for something more to say. “What do we have on the menu?”

“Homicide.” Sally said, seeming just as surprised that he was still speaking to her as he was. “Unidentified male, he’s on the front steps just up there. His throat’s been cut, bled out, it’s pretty gruesome, just to -- just to warn you.” 

“Anything else?”

“I’m not sure.” Sally shrugged, relaxing a little as the conversation continued. “But I know -- it’s weird. On the body, there was this -- I don’t know, a little porcelain animal or something. As soon as Lestrade saw it, he told me we needed to get you here before we touched anything.”

“Was it a rabbit?”

Holmes had done this far too many times for Donovan to be at all surprised when he knew something he shouldn’t. “Yeah, that’s right. A rabbit -- do you know what that’s about?”

“I might.” Holmes said, with none of his usual mystique. It was true, he might know, but murder didn’t seem to fit at all with the picture he’d painted in his head of the Easter Bunny -- God, he really was going to have to find a better name. “Where’s the Inspector?”

“He’s inside, talking to the man who lives here.”

“Thank you very much, Donovan.” He took a half-step forward and then turned back. “And -- ah, keep up the good work.”

Sally squinted. “Right. Thanks?” 

 

***

“It’s extraordinary, is what it is.” 

Holmes decided that he would announce his presence at the crime scene to his Detective Inspector before digging into the dead body on the front steps. He knew that most of the time, Lestrade, or just about any other Yarder did tend to get their back up when he walked in on a witness interrogation because his methods of interview were, at best, less than sensitive, so he kept quiet as he walked into the house and up the stairs to find Lestrade, notepad open, listening to the homeowner, Harold Harker, explain with shaking hand the gruesome scene he’d discovered. 

“All my life I have been writing about other people’s news.” Harold was dressed in a battered Manchester United shirt and a pair of plaid drawstring trousers. He’d thrown a robe over top of his sleeping clothes, but otherwise looked nothing short of utterly disheveled. Sherlock dismissed him as a possible suspect almost instantly, but what he was _saying_ certainly piqued the consulting detective’s interest. “And now? Pah! Now that a real piece of news has dropped -- God, listen to me you must think I’m terrible. Thinking of myself at a time like this and not that poor man -- that poor man -- but it’s there. A story right on my doorstep and I am so confused and bothered that I can’t put two words together. If I had come in here as a journalist, I should have interviewed myself and had a brilliant article for the Evening Standard. And I can tell you, I’ve told you, the whole story but I can’t -- I can’t make any use of it myself for the life of me.”

“Well, perhaps I _can_ ,” Holmes said, having moved to stand behind Lestrade. Greg looked up from what he was doing, noticing Holmes for the first time and shot him just a slight warning glance. Sherlock, as expected, ignored it. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like to hear your version of events.”  
“I--you, you’re Sherlock Holmes! I-- I wrote about you when you--”

“Yes, I’m sure you did,” Holmes cut in, quite sure that neither he nor Greg needed the reminder of what the press had had to say about him. Particularly now when there were other, more important matters to investigate. Getting caught up in either the guilt of his own actions or becoming aggravated by the former opinions of a witness he was now trying to help were not very high on his priority list. “But if you don’t mind?”

“Certainly, yes, sorry. Of course.” 

Harker retold his story which, Holmes could tell from the expression on Lestrade’s face, revealed very little to either of them. The journalist had been working late and had dozed off in front of his laptop, missing everything. He’d gone out in the morning to collect his mail and found the bloody, broken body of a complete stranger thrown upon his steps. Holmes said little to reassure him besides explaining -- sarcastically -- that his report was _exceptionally_ useful and then excused himself, bidding Lestrade follow. Harker, like most journalists, seemed to have a bad habit of saying much and nothing all at the same time. Perhaps, though, the body would tell them more than the witness. 

As they walked back downstairs, Lestrade paused. “I know what you’re thinking, Sherlock.” 

Holmes stopped at the bottom, hands in the pockets of his coat and looked at Greg with suspicious uncertainty. He was, at any given moment, thinking about a number of things. Right now, Harker’s stupidity and his eagerness to slap on a pair of gloves and stick his fingers into a corpse were at the forefront, but sinking his teeth into a full evaluation of how any man looked as good in an untailored suit and a tie from three Christmases ago as Lestrade managed to was a runner-up looking to overtake the lead at any moment. Particularly when Lestrade finished his descent down the stairs and stood beside him. Damn him to hades. “Those are famous last words, Inspector, but do enlighten me.” 

“That this doesn’t hit. It’s what we talked about last night.” Lestrade said with a shrug. “I mean, why would someone who didn’t care about media attention murder someone on the steps of a newspaper? Not actually, sure, but you know what I mean. This Easter Bunny--”

“Stop calling him that.”

“-- hasn’t even done anything but breaking and entering. Vandalism, yeah? He’s not even stealing and it’s a big jump from that to _murder_. You said it yourself that he wasn’t anything like -- you know -- like him. That this was all about beating security and that, no one getting hurt so -- either you’re _wrong_ or--”

“Or something about this isn’t right,” Sherlock finished for him. Lestrade was wrong, he _hadn’t_ been thinking about how out of place a murder was in the Easter Bunny’s behaviour pattern, but that was Greg’s fault, really. It was getting harder to focus with him flouncing about crime scenes, looking like he’d just stepped out of the pages of some on-a-budget Gentleman’s Quarterly. “Astoundingly, you’re absolutely right Lestrade. That’s exactly what I was thinking. Let’s see what the body has to tell us about what’s actually going on here, mm?”

***

Holmes stepped out of the house and right into another roadblock: Anderson was looming over the corpse, bagging evidence he’d already removed from the body. Holmes felt his forearms twitch and he honestly had to stop himself from reaching up and dragging his hand down his face in despair. There was no reason on earth not to expect that Anderson had just utterly cocked up _his_ investigation. Not because he thought Anderson was incompetent, (well, perhaps a little because he thought Anderson was incompetent) but because Anderson’s forensic analysis would be uniformed. He didn’t know about the trail of rabbits or why this particular bunny seemed out of place, thus anything he said about the case would be utterly useless. And once again, Sherlock would have to tell him to go away and once again Anderson wouldn’t understand that it wasn’t (well, at least not entirely) personal. It was a vicious cycle and one he really didn’t have time for. 

“You’d better take a look at this,” Anderson said, getting to his feet and holding out an evidence bag for Lestrade. Sherlock might have intercepted, had he not been stricken temporarily immobile with rage, and Greg took the bag. 

“What am I looking at, Anderson?” Lestrade said, turning the clear bag in his hand and taking a look at the photograph within it. “Who’s this?”

“I don’t know. We found it in the victim’s shirt pocket.”

“Let me -- Let me see.” Holmes stepped over and stuck his chin over Lestrade’s shoulder. It was a photograph of a young man with a devilish smirk, sporting a white flatcap over smoothed down sandy hair, a garish red-and-yellow striped jacket and matching tie, and a large Cambridge University shield pinned abrasively to his lapel. He was handsome, even dressed outlandishly as he was, with a thin face and a pink youthfulness to his cheeks. His eyes were large, blue and expressive and there was no mistaking the confident arch of his jaw. His personality practically beamed out of the photograph. 

“Harry Potter enthusiast?” Anderson joked, but as usual his brand of humour fell on Sherlock’s ear like a chord from an untuned piano. Holmes thought he was serious.

“Of course -- No. Those are the colours for the Marylebone Cricket Club, obviously.”

“ _Cricket?_ ” Lestrade interjected. “Why’s he got a Cricketer in his pocket?” 

“We might never know,” Holmes murmured as he mused over the photograph. He noticed, then along the left edge of picture there was a long, narrow blood smear. He chewed at the inside of his cheek and flipped the picture to look at the back: more blood all along the bottom of the photo, not splatter but seeped into the photo paper. He shifted his weight to look past Anderson at the murdered man. 

The victim’s feet were facing the door, his body slanted downward over the steps and his _head_ tilted back at an awful angle that further exaggerated the gash on his throat. But, because of how he lay, the blood almost all pooled at the bottom of the stairs. It was much like hanging a slaughtered animal upside down and letting gravity do the draining work. What this meant, however, was that beyond the man’s shirt collar, there was little to no blood at all. The only way for it to get onto the photograph would be if the murderer had accidentally gotten it there before stuffing it into the victim’s pocket. What could that mean? “I need to keep this photograph, take it to Baker Street. Examine it further.”

“You can’t do that!” Anderson said, but his tone already suggested he knew it wouldn’t matter what he said about it.

Lestrade thinned his lips. “Just, keep the evidence bag sealed at least, would you?” 

***

The truth of the matter was that he’d just had to get away from Lestrade. That was almost always why he retreated to Baker Street to get his thinking done and why John wasn’t in the least bit distracting. He was keen on Greg, he knew it, and spending his focus watching the Detective Inspector meant his brain wasn’t doing what it ought to be. A few hours at home and a few cigarettes (no, not cigarettes. He was quitting. Violin, then) and he was positive he’d manage to work out what was probably so obvious he shouldn’t have missed it. 

He wished Lestrade had never gotten divorced. It wasn’t as bad then, but now -- as he let himself into his flat and made a beeline for his violin and music stand -- he was still thinking about him. So much so, that his immediate song choice was the unfinished piece he was still composing about him. But no matter, he’d play it anyway. He’d play anything, just to refocus his mind on blood on the picture frame. Frame. A frame. Of course it was a frame, but who was doing it? He glided his bow over the strings, knowing the answer had to be somewhere in the hazy mess in his head. 

“I say! You’re very good!” 

A note squeaked and he nearly dropped his instrument as he spun around, mouth open at his own stupidity for not realising he had left the door unlocked, for not realising that he wasn’t alone in his own bloody flat. Lestrade -- damn him to hades. “You!”

There, standing in his kitchen, hovering _his_ kettle over the sink was the very _man_ from the photo himself, smiling in a cheeky, almost stupid fashion that made Sherlock want to hurl his violin towards the unexpected visitor’s head. 

“Me!” he said, still grinning as he turned the tap on and filled the kettle. “Tea?”

“Oh, that would be lovely. Why not? It’s always better to be served an explanation as to why someone felt the need to intrude with a fresh cup.” Sherlock said. After all, this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, was it? 

The man set the kettle on its stand and clicked it on before he bustled about the kitchen with a familiarity Holmes didn’t like, collected the tin of Lapsang Souchong and dished a few spoonfuls into his Ali Miller teapot. “You’re right about that, my good fellow. I must say, I’d not planned on us meeting quite this way, of course, it’s the least we can do to both be gentlemen about it. It’s quite the honour, if I might say so, to be in the home of the world’s greatest detective. I was a bit shocked by how easy it was getting in, in fact! I thought you of all people would be the sort to be a bit more cautious than a single door lock. I’d be disappointed if I’d no idea how challenging you were in other ways, I’m sure!” 

“You’re the Easter Bunny.”

“Eh? The what?”

“Nevermind. You’re the one who sent me those photographs, the one of the rabbit in the Louvre. Leaving them all around the city as well, that’s you.”  
  
The man puffed up, beaming and nodding enthusiastically. “Oh, I’m so glad you heard about those. Yes! That’s me. Hello, it’s a right pleasure to meet you. Perhaps I don’t even have to explain myself, then, do I? You already know why I’m here, of course you do, you’re Sherlock Holmes!”

“You’ve been framed for murder.” Sherlock set his violin down carefully and crossed the room to take up residence in his chair, smiling in spite of himself. He rather liked how quick this guest of his was. It wasn’t just any man who’d realised they’d been framed before the Yarders cracked down, not to mention before the crime itself had even made it to the papers. “And you’re looking for my help to make sure this is all tucked away neatly before the press has their way with it and publishes your handiwork alongside this crime.”

Because it didn’t matter if it was untrue. Holmes knew that better than anyone. Once the media got hold of a story like this, no matter what, it would be impossible to make it go away. It had been hard enough for him to clean up his name, and he operated on the side of the law. A vandal would have no chance. He was honestly sympathetic, additionally so because he’d been in the very position himself. 

“Bravo! My man, you’re astonishing.” He chuckled. “I hadn’t doubted you for a moment -- can I trust you’re well on your way to cracking the case?”

“You have all the attention I can afford to spare,” Sherlock reassured him as kettle went off and his guest poured the boiled water slowly into the teapot. 

“Though, something still eludes me.”

“If there is anything I can to do help, say the word, I’m in your service, Mr. Holmes.” 

“Why the rabbits?”

“Ah! Yes. I suppose there isn’t any harm in being honest with you, now is there?”

“As you’re not a murderer, no, I hardly think there is.”

“My first love is not, at all, _vandalism_. I’m a thief, tried and true. The way I see it, we can’t all be moralists, and the distribution of wealth is all wrong anyway,” he explained as he arranged the tea tray gingerly and brought it into the living room, pausing to serve. “Two years ago, my partner and associate Harry Manders was arrested and jailed for a rather minor charge. He felt it very difficult to explain away his possession of a stolen Van Gogh, poor chap. Anyway, as I was stealing a gold chalice from British Museum to mail to the Queen as a Diamond Jubilee present --”

“I read about that,” Holmes said, blowing on his tea. He’d still been on hiatus at the time, or he was positive he would have been called in to investigate before the cup turned up back at Buckingham Palace. “ _Very_ good.”

“Thank you! But, as I was saying, as I was in the act it occurred to me that I ought to do something lovely for Manders. He’s such a sweetheart and I felt dastardly for having him sent away. his release date is coming up and I thought it might be nice to do a little something to show him I hadn’t forgotten about him. I couldn’t exactly write or visit, not the way people talk in this day and age, and I’ve always been a bit sentimental.” 

“And this Mr. Manders has an affinity for rabbits?” 

“Bunny? You could certainly say that.”

***

After a morning spent at a crime scene, Lestrade was back at the office, making sure the evidence that Holmes hadn’t commandeered was processed properly. He knew he’d mentioned to Sherlock that he wouldn’t tell Hornung about the other photographs, but it would be bad police work if he didn’t let the other detective in on the fact that a porcelain rabbit had shown up on the body of a murder victim. Even if he had his suspicions that the cases weren’t completely related, he could do without any interdepartmental tension. There was still enough stress lingering around the Holmes scandal to make him wary of any additional unwanted attention. Plus, as always, any excuse not be behind his desk was a good one. 

As he took the elevator to Hornung’s floor, he let himself think about just how good Sherlock had looked at the crime scene. He knew it wasn’t exactly professional that he stare at his consulting detective, but it really couldn’t be helped, could it? He always looked polished and perfect, even standing about and listening (uninterested) to witness testimonies. It was a bit unfair that he had to work in such close quarters with him sometimes. He’d have much preferred the opportunity to drink in the perfect angles of his cheekbones and the glorious way his presence commanded attention without the added responsibility of managing a police team. 

Hornung’s office was empty, apparently the man had the day off. Lestrade wondered what _that_ must be like. He thought about shooting him a text to let me know that he might want to come up but, finding the door unlocked, he figured he might as well take a saunter in. If there was any further information about the Easter Bunny to be had, he hardly thought he was without cause in looking for it. 

Lestrade crossed to the other detective’s desk. There was a collection of files scattered about and he picked up the first that caught his attention. A simple, beige folder with the name “Arthur Raffles” written in dark bold letters across it. The name had been circled a half dozen times and it stuck out among the other files like a hitchhiker’s thumb. He picked it up and leafed through, his expression darkening almost immediately. Holmes had to see this. 

***

After the departure of his unexpected guest, it was back to his thoughts and the violin. Having met the framed man himself, Holmes was now even more determined to find the true culprit and do what he could to paint the murderer as some creepy obsessive. There might still be some overlap between the murder and playful vandal, but if the story was spun right, it could end up with the Easter Bunny coming out on top. Dealing with the newspapers would be easy enough if he had at least a little control over what was handed to them. He just had to work out what his next move was and he hoped that finally having some time alone to think, he’d be able to sort out what needed to be done. 

But not five minutes into his revisiting of Lestrade’s violin piece, there was a tap at the door and the _man himself_ walked in with a smile.

“That’s nice, what you’re playing,” Lestrade said naively as he shut the door behind himself.

Holmes spun on his heels to face him, absolutely aghast. He was only human and any man can take only so much. Lestrade’s gentle comment proved to be the last straw, the proverbial feather the broke the camel’s back, and what spewed forth from Sherlock was as vicious as it was uncontrolled. His wits had failed him, utterly. 

“Oh you like it -- do you? Well good!” he snapped. “I wrote it for you! It seems it’s a bloody siren’s call though, isn’t it. I play it and here you are -- here you are with your face and your stupid, perfect _everything_ , sauntering in like you’ve no idea how good you look, how distracting you are! I can’t -- I can’t get a minute of work done anywhere near you, do you know that? Because all I can bloody think about is you -- how much I want you -- how much I -- “

The flame fizzled out as Sherlock realised what he’d just gone and admitted. After weeks -- months -- no, fucking _years_ of pining like an idiot he’d just gone and thrown his feelings out into the open like a maid dumping a chamberpot into the street. This was what ruin felt like. Not the media turning against him, not public disgrace or the guilt of having to hurt his friends to save their lives. This, this very moment he wished to sink into the floorboards and never be seen or heard from again. His career was over! How could he ever face Lestrade again, knowing that he knew. Knowing that he probably mocked him and his stupid fixation every spare moment he got. He’d throw himself out the window if he didn’t already know that it wouldn’t _kill_ him. Mrs. Hudson’s bins would break his fall and leave him only with a twisted ankle and more embarrassment.

“Oh God,” Sherlock lamented, dropping his violin dejectedly onto the table and fixing his eyes on Lestrade’s shocked, confused and probably disgusted face. “Please don’t just stand there. Please either -- either say something, or just leave or --” 

But Lestrade didn’t say anything. Before Holmes even registered what was happening, Greg had expelled the space between them and claimed a fistful of his plum shirt, pulling them together and shutting down any chance of a question or protest (not that there would have been one) with a strong, ridiculously earnest kiss. 

And then somehow the music stand was knocked over. Somehow Lestrade’s belt, his shoes, his shirt, all ended up strewn about the flat as they made their way, clumsily tripping over their own trousers, to the bedroom. Sherlock hit the mattress on his knees with Greg’s weight behind him instantly. He felt hot, warm with the fury of all of this. His mind was _drowning_ in stimulation and as much as he tried to grasp or focus at just one of the things Greg was doing, just gasp at the way Lestrade’s teeth grazed his shoulder or shiver at how good it felt to have Greg’s primed and perfect cock rut against his thigh, all he could do was moan at the accumulated sensation of everything. 

Neither one of them were particularly skilled at this, but they managed. Holmes sliding ungracefully onto his back and holding steady to Lestrade’s shoulders as the man used a hand to work him open. Sherlock arched from the mattress to kiss him a bit more softly, just to make his intent very clear: if this was some one-off fluke, he’d kill them both. 

He relaxed into the mound of pillows at his headrest as Lestrade withdrew his hand, he tilted his pelvis upwards and invited Greg’s weight as the man bore down on him. He dug his heels into the cushion of the mattress to offer some resistance against the Lestrade’s long, fluid thrusts and let himself be utterly swept away by the magnitude of satisfaction that was finally having what he’d for so long desperately wanted. He liked to fancy himself a man who was generally pulled through life by the thrill of the chase, but not now. This was far more fulfilling.

 

***

Sheer exhaustion made it difficult to want to move at all, but Lestrade reached over and pulled Sherlock close, liking how it felt when the detective ran his hand across his chest and moved in to weave a leg between his own. He’d dozed off a couple times, happily consumed in the warmth of Sherlock’s bed. He’d honestly forgotten that he’d come to Holmes for anyway besides what had just transpired. Probably because he’d come over wanting it like he’d done so many times before, unknowingly or otherwise. 

“You’re just -- you’re just so distracting,” Holmes complained, smiling as he shifted his weight and left a kiss on Lestrade’s jaw. “All the time.”

“Well, maybe if we do this _more_ it’ll help you focus.” Greg bit back a grin as he tilted his chin down to look at Sherlock. 

“I’m not sure that will work.” Holmes exhaled. “We’ll have to experiment.”

“You’re right, of course. Test out the theory.” God, this was perfect. This was the best he’d felt in ages.

“We’ll have to start immediately.”

“Immediately?” Greg laughed, shaking his head. “Let’s give it an hour or two, yeah?” 

“What did I tell you?” Sherlock sniffed as he put his head down on Greg’s shoulder. “Distracting.”

“I’m distracting, you’re--” Lestrade paused. _Distracting_ was right. He suddenly remembered exactly why it was he’d called on Holmes to begin with. The file in Hornung’s office on Arthur Raffles. “Hey, hey actually, I’ve got to talk to you about -- about the case today.” 

“Sex _and_ work? God, no one has ever been this good to me.” Holmes said. “Tell me, what’s happened?” 

“I went back to the Yard after you left the crime scene this morning.” Lestrade shifted to put the arm Holmes wasn’t leaning on around him, rubbing his back idly. There was something especially satisfying about the fact he had this to keep looking forward to. He’d never thought for a second that Holmes might be interested in him like this, but he supposed that -- like with everything else -- he’d just needed Sherlock to fucking spell it out before he caught on properly. “I went to see Hornung to tell him about the rabbit we found on the body.”

Sherlock tensed a little, a minor protest. “Did you?” 

“Except he wasn’t there,” Lestrade continued. “So I went into his office to have a look around, see if there was any information about the case that might shed some light on it, you know?”

“I’ve taught up bad habits.”

“Yeah, it looks like you’re going to teach me a few more you --” Lestrade laughed. “No, no. _Work_ \-- anyway, he wasn’t there but I found this file. Someone by the name ‘Raffles’ and I opened it up and it was --”

“Full of photographs of the same dastardly knave who thinks it’s fetching to don red and yellow stripes?” 

“How did you--”

“The photograph I took from the body this morning was planted,” Sherlock said. “Obviously. It had blood around the edges but there was none to be found on the victim’s shirt and unless Anderson is really shite at his job -- and believe me, I’d love it if he was -- it can mean _only_ that a man with blood on his hands had planted the picture. And with what you’re telling me, I can only imagine that the _villain_ in question was --”

“Hornung,” Lestrade finished flatly. “Why would he -- no, I get it. The asshole probably -- I bet he thinks this Raffles character is the Easter Bunny, but he couldn’t prove it.”

“No, he certainly can’t. Ridiculous theory, probably, given what a sloppy frame up this is. A photograph of the supposed killer conveniently placed in the pocket of the deceased? What will they think of next.”  
  
“You’re right,” Lestrade agreed. 

Sherlock sighed, reached up to touch Greg’s face and draw him into another kiss. “Then the only thing left to do is for you to find and arrest him, I suppose. Though, we may want to solve the case of what-happened-to-your-trousers first. But don’t worry, by the time you get back I’ll have our next experiment all lined up -- ah, and bring dinner. It is your turn.”

THE END!


End file.
